


Outfoxed

by beta_19



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Butts, Drinking, Flirting, Gen, Smoking, Swearing, actually just one butt, and I cannot lie, bad taste in suits, but it's big, inappropriate and/or suggestive language, inappropriately short shorts, pathetic slap fights, period homophobia, sexual innuendo, stanchez
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 18:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8337910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beta_19/pseuds/beta_19
Summary: San Fran, 1978 -- 'Stetson Pinefield', conman extraordinaire, is out-scammed by some skinny kid in ridiculous hotpants.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had intended for this to be a brief one-shot, max 5000 words. Then the deadline loomed and it just got away from me. Oops.
> 
> My first shot ever at writing stanchez. Brotp 4 lyfe!
> 
> Originally for the STANCHEZ MICRO-BANG 2016! || http://stanchez-bang.tumblr.com || Props to my babes [Ruby](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8337910/chapters/19099675), [shitshow-mcgee](http://shitshow-mcgee.tumblr.com), and [schwubadub](https://www.dropbox.com/s/x4kc55zdkgb5lzp/Project%2018ffff.png?dl=0)! And to my homies on [stanchez-slack!](http://stanchez-slack.tumblr.com) Aaayyyyyy!
> 
> Peace outttt

Strains of _Stayin’ Alive_ were thumping from the radio of a passing Ford Escort as Stanley Pines moseyed on down the sidewalk. The late morning sun gleamed off faux-tortoiseshell aviator sunglasses. His sleek, sweeping moustache was the envy of masculine men in flared slacks everywhere. The gold chain around his neck glinted in its nest of chest hair formed by the triangle of his unbuttoned rayon shirt collar. His mullet needed a trim, but at least his grin was on point.

The intersection of Sanchez street and 17th was bustling at this hour, which was unusual for a weekend but the local elementary school was having some kind of bake sale and the parental types were cruising in and out, shipping children and relatives back and forth. 

Always on the lookout for opportunity, Stan eyeballed the families clustering about the rows of paper-dressed tables across the street. Maybe there would be time to sidle on over to pick up a rice crispie square or a hot single mom. Maybe two rice crispie squares.

A quick swagger across the street had him swinging up towards the bake sale. An awkwardly painted banner posted on the courtyard wall proclaimed that the bake sale proceeds were going straight to funding some kind of field trip, though Stan couldn’t read the rest as the size of the font dwindled near the end. The kids manning the tables were assisted by moms and teachers alike, and the younger siblings ran about on the playground, chasing each other with balloons and tripping on their autumn scarves. Locals from Market street filtered in every now and then, having followed the balloon-festooned cardboard signs taped to lampposts.

Stan meandered past the setup, gaze skipping over the baskets of cookies, the trays of lumpy bricks disguised as rocky road brownies, and the meticulously-arranged trays of colourful cupcakes. He was looking for something specific, and very quickly he spotted it: a lone kid selling a tray of some rather decent muffins next to a sad bucket of slightly burned, flat cookies.

With an appraising look on his face, Stan approached the end table and cast a sweeping gaze over the sad cookies, which were advertised as 25 cents a cookie. Thoughtfully he twirled his moustache as he regarded the product with a critical eye. The child seated behind the table sensed the scrutiny and shrunk in on herself.

“Howdy!” Stan suddenly beamed. “I’m Stetson, Stetson Pinefield at your service. What’s your name, little girl?”

“Her name is Courtney,” a voice said flatly next to Stan’s ear. 

Stan spun around, armed with a big smile. Standing next to him was a mound of hair -- no, wait, a beehive updo. The face beneath the blond, coiffed pile was small and red with a double helping of lipstick.

“And you must be little Courtney’s older sister!” Stan greeted over-loudly.

“I’m her mother.” Well-manicured little hands were set, businesslike, upon round hips.

“Oh, my mistake! Hello, I’m Stetson Pinefield at your service,” Stan repeated, sticking a broad hand out. “My little Johnny is around here somewhere, likely with his auntie, hehe. It’s been a long time since his mother’s been out of the picture, so little outings like this really make him happy.”

Meanwhile, the little woman stared up and down at Stan, taking in the suit, the greased moustache, and the gauntlet of gold rings flashing on his broad fingers. “Ya-huh,” she said.

“Anyway! I just thought I should, uh, y’know, contribute to the cause while I’m at it!” Stan went on.

“Do you even know what this fundraiser is for?”

Stan resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder at the painted bake sale banner. 

“Sure I do! It’s for the, uhh… gynecologist-- uh, gymnastics club!” Stan replied quickly. At least, that’s what he hoped the banner said. The car windows lined up along the sidewalk were reflecting the banner just right, but Stan had to read it backwards.

The woman smiled grimly. 

“Anyway, I’d like to do my part! And these cookies here look just fantastic.” Stan dipped his hand into the bucket and without looking, plucked out one of the shrinkwrapped items. The cookie within the plastic looked decidedly over-baked. “At a quarter a piece, I think you’ll be selling these like literal hotcakes. How much have ya got in here?”

“Honey?” The woman glanced over at the small child fidgeting behind the table.

“Sixteen…?” Courtney mumbled, eyes wide.

“Sixteen! Why, at a quarter a peice, that’s... four whole dollars! That’s a pretty good price! Whaddya say? May I buy the whole thing from ya, sweetheart?” Stan leaned over the table to turn his sunbeam of a smile onto the kid instead.

“Okay….?” Courtney said uncertainly.

Courtney’s mom meanwhile continued to look unimpressed. “You’re not really gonna eat all those cookies, are you,” she said, more statement than question.

“No, but little Johnny will have dessert in his lunch for weeks!” Stan said, attempting to beam his grin at the woman, who was still not having it.

“Unfortunately, uh, I seem to be… out of change.” He frowned as he patted his pockets. “All I’ve got is this, uhh…”

He pulled out what looked like a glass eye, a chewing gum wrapper, a bobby pin, and a little ball wrapped in a twist of dusty paper.

“Whoops, not that,” he muttered, cramming the items back into his pocket again. “Aha! All I’ve got is this twenty-dollar bill on me.” A wrinkled bank note was drawn from his other back pocket.

At this, the lady frowned and turned aside briefly to rummage through her purse. “I suppose I could break that into a five and a ten for ya…” she murmured.

Meanwhile, Stan carefully set the twenty down onto the table and reached into his other back pocket to fish out his wallet. He carefully made a show of leafing through the numerous receipts stored in the main pocket as the woman leafed through her own change.

“Oh, why look at this! I’ve found an extra dollar,” Stan suddenly said as the woman set down a few more bills onto the table. “Here, we can exchange it like this, and this…”

A few minutes later, Stan was hoofing it down the street and rounding the corner before anyone could get a bead on him. He’d counted at least forty dollars in the kid’s stash -- how had they made forty dollars selling _muffins_ …? -- so by sacrificing the ten he’d managed to gain another twenty. It was was a cheap grab, stealing from kids, but the El Diablo needed gas and ten bucks wasn’t going to cut it.

He was mid-stride on the crosswalk when an errant elbow casually brushed past him. Ever-wary of fellow pickpockets, Stan listened for a distinct, thin rattle of chain that never came, which was a relief -- the wallet chain draped out of his back pocket of his wool trousers was doing its job.

The elbow-culprit however was another thing. Skinny as a rail and built like a bicycle, the kid wobbled on sneaker-clad feet as he strode on ahead. He looked half-starved with the way his shoulders were clearly outlined by the stained ringneck T-shirt covering his back, but that was all that was normal about him. His Adidas hotpants, clearly designed for ladies, were hiked uncomfortably high up on his legs, but apparently this wasn’t stopping this fashion savant. The shock of hair cresting the back of his head was pale as thistledown, and just as fluffy.

The oddity screamed _freakshow_ to Stan. Not that he couldn’t take the human coat rack who might have been trying to steal his wallet, but when they were thin and desperate like that, usually there was some other aggressive factor involved: heroin addiction with a side order of street smarts and pocket knives. Or if Stan was having a particularly fantastic day, a used syringe.

Instinctively he slowed a little to let the gawky kid get a little further ahead, just to put some safe distance between them. No such luck however, as the kid merely stepped aside and waited for Stan to cross the curb before drifting along with him.

“Hey… hey man,” the kid stuttered, his long legs keeping easy stride with Stan’s pace. “You know what street you’re on, man?”

Stan stared straight ahead as he continued to stroll, his body language at ease despite his wariness. 

“If you’re trying to claim gang territory, I don’t think the elementary school over there is good pickings,” he said. “The twelve year-olds aren’t exactly raking in the dough, unless you’re looking to roll ‘em for cookies.” Stan thumbed over at the bake sale. 

“Nah, nah, man! This street literally, literally has my name on it,” the kid laughed.

“Your name is Sanchez?”

“Roger dodger.”

“Roger Sanchez?”

“Close. Rick.”

“Richard Sanchez? Do your friends call you Dick?”

“S’what they call the little man.”

Stan snorted.

“Anyway, since you’re uh, y’know, trespassing on my street here, I think there’s a toll ya gotta pay, y’know?” the kid went on.

“Not a good opener,” Stan said dryly.

“What?”

“Sorry, keep going,” Stan said lightly, flapping a hand at him.

Roger Dodger Rick Richard Dick Sanchez screwed up his eyebrow -- he had kind of unibrow thing going on, which in his light hair colour looked like a caterpillar roosting on his forehead -- but then broke out into a congenial grin.

“Yeah-yeah, okay, so the street charm ain’t sellin, I gotcha. Anyway, spare some change, man? Like, I have money, I just need to break it up, like, make some change out of it…”

Well didn’t that sound familiar. “Sorry kid, ain’t got a nickel on me,” Stan sighed, spreading his big hands apart. He watched how the kid eyed the rings glinting on his fingers. Joke was on him, though: it was all costume jewellery.

“N-nah man,” the kid insisted -- what was that smell? Rubbing alcohol? He smelt like bandaids. “Groovy-lookin’ fella like you, in a, in a good suit with a, with a set of handlebars like that -- that moustache, man, great job -- s’gotta have a couple bucks for tippin’ the waitresses, right, gotta tip the bartender or he doesn’t fill your drink all the way, y’know?”

Stan recognized the language. The kid was trying to flatter him, rather than appeal to any sort of philanthropic or sympathetic nature, of which Stan approved. He gave the kid a knowing grin.

“I like your moxie, kid,” he chuckled, leaning aside to dip a hand into his pocket. “Here’s a fiver, on me. Maybe go get yourself some actual pants.”

“S-sorry if my gams are disturbing you,” the kid said, matching him grin for grin. He didn’t take the five-dollar bill. He was busy watching Stan’s face instead.

“I’m honestly more worried for the kids across the street. I mean, there’s no questioning whether those legs go all the way up with the way you’re wearing those. A little breezy, dontcha think? Seriously, though. Pants.”

“Sorry man, I-I’m not into charity. C’mon, just-just make some change with me, and we’ll be square, okay? Here, l-lemme show you the bill.” The kid pulled out the waistband of his hotpants and jammed a hand straight into them.

“How about no,” Stan said quickly. 

“S-seriously, it’ll only take a second--”

“Oh hey, look at my wrist, late for an appointment!” Stan blurted out, and without waiting for awkwardness to settle in he took off at a hasty jog down the sidewalk and around the corner.

* * * * *

The client was waiting for him behind the Castro theatre. By then, Stan had lit up a cigarette and was loitering outside of his car, leaned up against the door. He was the only person parked there at this hour.

The client was a woman. Heavy-set and shaped like a turnip, she strode around the corner into the rear parking lot with a businesslike swagger. Her hair was piled on top of her head and her skirt was up to _there_ but was offset by legwarmers and sneakers. Stan quickly leaned off the side of his car and slapped on his most dazzling grin.

“Welcome!” he beamed as he casually flicked his cigarette away. “You’re right on time! Care for a cookie?”

The woman didn’t even look at the shrinkwrapped hockey puck Stan held up for her to see. “I’ll pass,” she sighed with a toss of her massive hair. “Whaddya got, Mister Pinefield?”

“An eager beaver, I like it!” Stan rubbed his hands together and ambled on over to the rear of the El Diablo. “C’mon over, Miss Bergholt, lemme show ya.”

After keying the lock open and popping the lid, Stan stepped aside as the lady approached. The lady then frowned.

“What is that… Are those rugs?”

“It’s carpet!” Stan replied, leaning into the trunk to rummage through the heavy rolls. “Nothin’ wrong with selling some genuine Persian rugs on the side, am I right? Here, have a look for yourself…!”

With a flourish, Stan produced a slightly smaller rug and unfurled it. The client’s eyes widened.

“Gosh, that’s a nice carpet.”

“Ain’t she a beaut? But I know that’s not what you’re here for, Miss. Gimme a minute here, and I’ll have it rustled up for ya…”

The little rug was rolled back up and set aside so Stan could continue digging through the rolls to get to the bottom. “Kinda explains why you wanted to meet here in the Castro district, though,” he grunted, bracing some of the heavier rolls. 

“Oh? How’s that?” the client asked, blinking.

“Your uh, obvious attraction to carpet,” Stan replied vaguely, with a wink.

Miss Bergholt’s gaze flattened. “I’m not a lesbian, Mister Pinefield.”

“Oh really? In that case, you’ll be more interested in seeing my wood…!”

From the bottom of the rug pile, Stan produced an even smaller rug, out of which he pulled a foot-long plank of hardwood.

This time the client rolled her eyes. 

“Oh come on, it was a good one,” Stan insisted, still grinning as he handed the brief plank over the client, who smiled grimly despite herself as she accepted it in one hand. Meanwhile, Stan continued with his pitch.

“This here is a sample of Rosolavian Purple Ironwood,” he began. “It’s the hardest, densest wood every yielded by Mother Nature! As you can see by the close-set grain, there’s little that can cut through this wood save for diamond or water pressure blades, and fire won’t even scorch this bad boy. Anything made with this wood is guaranteed to be mold and insect-proof thanks to our secret sealing process, which locks in natural oils and maintains this wood’s rare and beautiful colour. Have a sniff for yourself! That cedar scent with lavender notes won’t come off on your hands, and smells pleasant all year round! You should check out our warehouse, it’s full of the stuff. The whole place smells great.”

While Stan rattled off the hardwood’s carpentorial traits, Miss Bergholt squinted at the grain, snuffled at the edges, and drew a suspect finger upon the plank’s matte surface before giving the finger an experimental rub.

“Well, golly. This really does seem authentic!” she exclaimed.

“Authentic? This baby’s the real deal!” Stan plucked the plank out of the lady’s hands. “This stuff will stop bullets!” He rapped his knuckles upon the plank’s smooth surface.

Calmly, Miss Bergholt reached into her purse and drew out a small pistol. Stan’s eyes widened.

“Whoa whoa whoa!” Stan instinctively held the plank in front of himself. “At least lemme put it down first before you try it out, lady!”

“Mister Pinefield, you’re under arrest for illegal possession of unlawfully obtained endangered rainforest hardwood,” Miss Bergholt said firmly, producing her badge with the other hand.

Stan stared at the gun first, then the badge.

“...wait, hold on,” Stan said carefully, holding one hand up for pause. “This stuff’s _illegal_?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gaaa-aaayyyyy

The lockup at the nearest San Fran PD wasn’t as bad as the last one, Stan noted as he was dutifully escorted by Officer Bergholt with his wrists cuffed behind his back. He’d been cooperative at least, cracking jokes all throughout the ride -- Officer Bergholt wasn’t bad-looking for a cop broad, and Stan couldn’t help himself. As a result he was spared any sort of typical police attitude, which he’d learned early on not to spur until an escape plan required it.

For the time being, he didn’t have one. Instead he was thinking about the El Diablo, which was likely on its way to the impound by now, his collection of rugs confiscated along with the innocuous planks of hardwood he’d been trying to peddle. Getting the car back would cost a bit, he thought, but all in all he’d started out with less.

 

Officer Bergholt had been more than fair, which Stan appreciated, especially when she discovered that he wasn’t carrying his wallet, and therefore did not have his ID on him. Stan tried his best to not look surprised -- because he’d been certain his wallet had been safely attached to his belt by a chain…

Ahhh, yep. The skinny thing in ridiculous hotpants. Christ, what a gimmick.

Just as Stan was mulling this over, he glanced over and saw that the second-to-last cell on the block was occupied. Upon closer inspection -- clearly Bergholt intended to lock him up in the last cell, which contained the least amount of graffiti -- Stan could make out a pair of impossibly long, skinny bare legs between the walls of beige-painted bars.

The legs stood up and approached the bars as Stan and Officer Bergholt neared. There was a split-second between Stan recognizing the kid’s face -- what was his name again? He was named after that street… Dick-- no, Rick Sanchez, right-- and spotting the intent gleam in the kid’s eye before a pair of hands shot out between the bars and seized him by the lapels.

“Hey--!” Stan choked out, finding himself hauled irresistibly -- face first, ow -- into the painted bars with a dull bonk. Rick’s hands had that unexpectedly sinewy strength of 80 year-old Spanish grandmothers, which Stan heard more than felt by the thin creak of his cheap polyester suit jacket being twisted by thin, hard fingers. 

Startled, Officer Bergholt flinched from the sudden movement. “Whoa, whoa, hey! Let him go!” she barked, trying to wrench Stan away by the shoulder. 

With his arms cuffed behind his back Stan stumbled, striking his knees awkwardly against the metal rail. “Ow, ow, hey, hands off!” he snarled, half-sagging from Rick’s fists for support. 

Rick meanwhile managed to get a good grip on the collar of Stan’s shirt, and had thrown one of his skinny arms around his neck, ramming Stan’s face flush against the bars. Stan felt like his head was going to be pulled through them. His shoes squeaked upon the linoleum as he struggled to regain his footing.

Officer Bergholt abandoned the attempt as soon as she’d started. She was no fool -- sticking her arms through the bars was asking for a broken arm. Instead, she began shouting for backup over her shoulder at the door. Keys jangled frantically on the other side.

“Jersus shirt,” Stan ground out, voice muffled now that his cheek smushed up into his eye, skewing his mouth out of shape. “Whuddaferg, Sernshiz?”

Up close, Rick smelled like chewing gum and rubbing alcohol and dry halitosis. Play along, he mouthed. His flinty gaze bored into Stan’s eyes.

Unable to nod much less refuse, Stan stopped struggling long enough to grunt something that sounded like _okay_.

The reinforced door suddenly crashed open as one-- no, two more uniformed officers piled into the narrow room containing the lockup cells. Each one brandished a stout police baton.

“Oh I did _not_ sign up for this,” Stan gurgled within Rick’s grip.

An awkward row ensued.

Stan did his best to at least look like he was putting up a fight, twisting and writhing under Rick’s elbow bent like a vice around his throat, but it was more to dodge the batons whaling him right in the face by the officers’ poorly-aimed blows. While the coppers attacked Rick’s arm, Officer Bergholt yelled at the jailkeeper for the keys. Stan was shouting in protest at being beaten while in custody while Rick began laughing and taunting. 

“Yeaaahh, come on! C’mon, piggies! You can’t get me from out there!” Rick cackled, giving Stan a rough jerk against the bars. “Yeah, you just try that, I’ll break your damn hands off.”

Stan remained effectively choked off, unable to do much with his hands cuffed behind his back. Hostage situations were a relatively new experience for him. “Stop--hitting me!” he snarled back at the officers.

“Outta the way,” Bergholt then snapped, hauling one of the officers aside to let the jailkeeper plow through with his keys. “Mister Sanchez, if you don’t release him right now we’re going to have to get rough with you.”

Rick grinned like a shark. “Is that a promise?”

Stan’s mind raced. Well, that was it, then. Rick was going to get a royal beatdown and… what was Rick’s plan, anyway?

Then it struck him. Rather, an officer reached out to try and grab him by the shoulder again, and on instinct Stan flinched, thinking it was a baton coming for his face again. As he slid down slightly against the bars, he slipped his fingers into his back pocket and scooped out all the contents: the marble, the gumwrapper, and… 

The twist of paper popped out last, dropping unnoticed to the floor as the cell door clanked and clanged open off to one side. Stan sucked in a breath and began stomping one foot, trying to find the item on the floor without being able to see it.

With a squeak of his rubber heel, something hissed like a cat underfoot and immediately a billow of heat flared up and enveloped his ankle. The other two officers swore and scrambled away, and Officer Bergholt backed off. The jailkeeper, who was already in the cell, whipped around to see a massive cloud of white smoke boiling up from the floor.

“Fire!” Bergholt shouted.

In an instant, the pressure around Stan’s throat uncoiled and disappeared.

Thick vapour rapidly filled the small lockup space, and someone was coughing. Still holding his breath, Stan did his best to stumble towards the door, feeling his way along the bars of the cell until his shoulder met concrete. Meanwhile, somewhere in the fog he could hear the coughing turn into grunts and retching noises, with intermittent thumps.

Just as Stan reached the door however, he glared at the reinforced door handle. He needed--

Keys jangled right by his ear, causing Stan to jump. 

“Hey,” Rick greeted as he smoothly ghosted out of the smoke. He began jamming keys into the door, testing each one with neat, quick precision. “Nice work on the, uh. The smoke bomb. Literally didn’t see that coming.”

“Do you have keys for these handcuffs?” Stan muttered, glancing nervously behind them.

There was a click and another jingle, and suddenly the roiling smoke in the room began swirling in the shift of air pressure. Rick said nothing as he slunk out, and Stan hurried out after him before Rick shut the door behind them.

Out in the corridor, Stan coughed at the smoke streaming off the shoulders of his cheap polyester suit as he stumbled after Rick, whose long legs were carrying him swiftly down to a door near the end. By the time Stan caught up, Rick had already cautiously poked his head in before slithering into the other room.

“Jackpot!” Rick beamed.

It was a locker room. Hanging off the doors of various lockers were flak jackets and vests, and on top of the lockers were boots, duffel bags, bottles of water.

Stan was quick to put it together for himself. “Uhh, cuffs?” he mumbled, but Rick was already pulling a jacket off and throwing it at him.

The black bomber jacket with an embroidered yellow police logo stitched on hit Stan in the face with a soft _flumf_ and slid off onto the floor. Stan just glared.

“In a minute,” Rick grunted as he continued rifling through the lockers, pulling out shirts, pants, socks, shoes, boots. 

“I don’t think we have a minute--” Stan began.

Out in the hallway, the fire alarm went off.

Stan groaned, shoulders sagging. He kicked the fallen jacket up onto a bench lining the middle of the locker aisle as Rick began pulling pants on over his too-short shorts. Holy god, what a relief, Stan thought. The kid was just… legs all over the place.

“Do you have a key or not?” Stan insisted as he jogged up towards him. If talking wasn’t going to get his attention, Stan figured he’d have to do his best trying to bully him a little, or at least as much as he could with his hands behind his back.

“Okay, okay, geez,” Rick sighed. “T-turn around.”

With a quick click, a jerk, and a zip, Stan felt Rick’s dry hands pulling apart one of the cuffs… but not the other. There was little time to complain however as Rick quickly let him go, and from there Stan swiped the jacket up off the bench and pulled it on. It was a bit tight on the shoulders but it otherwise fit. As he turned back around, Rick jammed a hat onto his head.

“Your pants, dude,” Rick pointed out as he flamingo’d on one leg to pull a boot on. “A little too flash, if you ask me. Might wanna… wanna try something else.”

“Hey, these are real wool,” Stan protested. 

“Yeah, and they’re real ugly,” said Rick, deadpan.

“Have you _seen_ what you’re wearing?”

At that, Rick grinned up from where he was bent double pulling on the second boot. “I see you noticed.”

Stan rolled his eyes at him for that, but without further word he begrudgingly shucked off the comfortable slacks and began sorting through the pile of trousers Rick had thrown out onto the aisle bench. As he did so, Rick leaned back and eyed him up and down.

“A boxers man,” Rick remarked from aside.

“Quit staring at my ass,” Stan grunted, flapping out a pair of trousers to check for fit. “Ya queer.”

“Said the guy who checked out my ass first.”

“What ass? Your legs just go all the way up,” Stan scoffed. “You’re a pair of chopsticks.”

“Well, if there’s a -- a finite amount of ass in this universe, it -- it looks like you got my portion,” Rick said with a bob of his eyebrow.

It took Stan a moment to parse that comment. “Are you saying my ass is fat?”

“I dunno, I’d have to get a better look.” Rick’s eyebrow waggled.

Stan had to roll his eyes again as he yanked his new pants on. 

“Are you Jewish?” Rick suddenly asked.

Stan glared at him until Rick sniggered and turned away to loot another locker.

*

As the fire alarm continued jangling out in the hallway, the locker door eventually eased open and two oddly-shaped police officers crept out. One was broad and mustachioed, the other looked like he was wearing a jacket one size too large and pants one size too short. 

“Just act natural,” Stan said, feeling that it needed to be mentioned.

“Not your first breakout, is it?” Rick said with a grin over his shoulder.

“Not yours either, I’d assume.”

“Seriously, buddy. Who carries smoke bombs around like that?”

“It was just the one!” Stan insisted. “It was for a… a thing.”

“Yeah. A _thing_.”

It wasn’t until they spotted a small flock of anxious-looking men and women in uniform that they joined in, looking equally worried, until they shuffled out the nearest exit in an orderly fashion, like a school of fish. Once outside in the glaring daylight, Rick and Stan casually drifted away from the group, edging past the parked cars in the street, and then sidled off into the closest alleyway.

*

Ten blocks later, Stan was rubbing his wrist where the other handcuff was tucked up into the sleeve of his puffy police jacket.

“That was… wow,” he panted. “I mean, I’ve run from the cops before, but not like that.”

“Yeah, you liked that?” Rick swept his angular police hat off his head and ran a long-fingered hand through his pale hair. 

“I generally don’t like kicking up a fuss that they’ll remember, y’know?” Stan murmured, glancing up and down the deserted back lane.

They were tucked in behind a dumpster that shielded them from view on one end of the street. It smelled like old vegetables and sour milk in the alley, but they were free at least, Stan tried to remind himself.

“So what were you in for?” he suddenly asked. “Also, please tell me you kept those keys.”

“Oh, uhh, nope,” Rick replied with a shrug. “Tossed ‘em.”

“Nevermind.” Stan reached to fish around in his back pocket, and then realized he was dressed like a police officer and had literally left the bobby pin in his other pants. He scowled.

“Got caught flirting with Officer Bergholt, huh?” Rick ventured.

“What? Nah,” Stan snorted, patting his coat pockets for anything that might be vaguely useful. “Kind of a long story. Anyway, hey, uhh… Rick. Thanks for the hand back there. Now if you were just as handy getting my car back, I’d call it my lucky day.” He paused. “A hat trick if you can gimme my wallet back, too.” 

Rick was spinning his hat around one finger, all the while watching Stan search his own clothes. “What makes you think I’ve got it?”

“Kid, from one confidence man to another, I know a--”

“Oh and hey, let’s knock it off with the ‘kid’ stuff,” Rick interjected with a sneer. “We’re the same age.”

“How do you--” Stan began. “Hey, you really did take my wallet, then! Come on, man, at least gimme my ID back.”

“Y-yeah, sure, _Pinefield_.” Rick leaned back and pulled out the front waistband of his trousers.

Stan grimaced as he watched Rick rummage around in his pants. Did this kid-- this guy not use normal pockets like everyone else? Eventually Rick produced the wallet in question, chain still attached.

“Okay, I gotta hand it to ya, that was some nice pickpocket work,” Stan sighed as the leather brick of cards and coins was relinquished. “Real smooth with the, uh... distraction.”

“The trick is to hike ‘em right up the asscrack.” Rick readjusted his new trousers with a grin. “You’d amazed at how intimidating a slice of cheek can be. It’s like underboob but more like underbutt. You can’t help but look.”

“I don’t think intimidating is the word for it,” mumbled Stan.

“So what did you do?”

Stan stopped fiddling with his jacket sleeves and glanced up. “Oh, uh… Got caught shilling some kind of illegal rainforest wood. I usually just do carpet, right, like… everyone doles out big change for Persian rugs. But this guy I know, he said he needed to unload a buncha lumber and he sold me on getting rid of this stuff. How was I supposed to know it was endangered?”

“Welp, I guess the cops have got a firm grip on your wood now,” Rick pointed out.

“And my car,” Stan grumbled, choosing not to dignify Rick’s pun. “I have no idea how I’m gonna get it outta the impound lot.”

“Oh yeah? What kind is it?”

“1965 El Diablo convertible. I got it when--”

“I meant the wood.”

Stan had the pitch memorized. “Rosolavian Purple Ironwood,” he rattled off automatically. “It’s the hardest, densest wood ever yielded by Mother Nature, bla bla bla, can’t be cut by anything less than diamonds, doesn’t burn, repels bugs, smells like bloody cookies and roses--”

“Does it really smell like that?” Rick flopped his hat back onto his thistledown hair and screwed it on tight.

“Nah. It’s got a kinda bath soap kinda smell?”

Rick frowned. “I need to see it. Or smell it, rather.”

“Huh? How come?”

“Reasons.” Rick waved a hand vaguely. 

“Good luck with that, then. It’s in the trunk of my car. And the cops have got the keys.” Stan held up his cuffed wrist. “I ain’t goin’ back in for that.”

“Oh yeah, I’ve got a thing,” Rick murmured, sticking his hand down his pants again.

“Wait! Nevermind, I’ll uh… I’ll figure it out on my own,” Stan replied hastily.

Out of Rick’s seemingly bottomless short-shorts, a paper clip was produced. Stan gingerly accepted it between thumb and forefinger, and he wiped it on the sleeve of his police bomber jacket before unfolding the bit of metal.

Rick let his pants snap back into place, and then began shifting restlessly from foot to foot with his fluffy unibrow bent into a thoughtful frown. “Yeah,” he finally said, after a moment. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Okay what?” Stan grunted. The paperclip was now folded into a U-shape.

“I’ll do it.” Rick dug his hands into his jacket pockets.

“Do what?”

Rick turned to Stan with a wide grin.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Manly slapping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [shitshow-mcgee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/CollisionCombustion/pseuds/shitshow-mcgee) for lending Laika! :D

Forty minutes of deking around and canvassing later, Stan was still in uniform. Even better, they were standing in line at the impound lot.

Beside him, Rick had shed the police uniform and was back in his shabby T-shirt and uncomfortably short shorts. Stan’s handcuffs were on his too-thin wrists. 

“Snug,” Rick remarked, raising his cuffed hands together. “I like it.”

Stan just scowled at him. “I dunno about this,” he muttered.

“Trust me,” Rick reassured him smugly. “Just do your thing. Don’t worry about me! Try to relax.”

“Have you ever _tried_ to relax? It’s a paradox.”

When they reached the counter, Stan leaned upon the edge but kept his large hand on Rick’s shoulder.

“Hey there, uh…” Stan squinted at the clerk’s name tag. “Laika. I’ve got a situation here. Could I ask you for a minute or two to help me out, please?”

Laika’s gaze tore itself off Rick to fasten onto Stan’s big, smiley face. “Um. Okay. What can I help with?”

Stan beamed, and pointed. “See, I’ve got this scumbag here -- it’s okay, he’s harmless -- who’s also a witness to a crime. I need him to identify something real quick, but it’s in the impound lot. Think you could come and pop the trunk on one of the vehicles here so I can get Creepy Gary here to tell me if it’s what we’re lookin’ for?”

“Creepy Gary needs to look at some junk in a trunk, ya dig?” Rick drawled. He drooled a little bit and swayed where he stood.

Laika tensed a little. Stan gave Rick’s handcuffs a jerk.

“Heel,” Stan grunted.

“Do you have the uh… the forms…? For which vehicle?” Laika stammered.

“See, that’s the actual situation,” Stan said patiently. “I’m in a hurry to get a certain suspect, uh, seriously incriminated before they let him out free to roam the streets, ‘cause I’m pretty sure we’ll never catch him again until we can provide some solid evidence that he’s guilty, and Creepy Gary here can put ‘im away for good! But only if he can get a look at what’s in the trunk of the suspect’s car.”

Laika’s eyes widened as Stan extrapolated. “Oh,” she said. “Oh. Okay. Well, I guess if… you’re not actually taking the car away....”

“Yeah, we’re just here for a look,” Stan reassured her.

“Okay. Okay. I’ll be right back.”

A moment later, Laika was pacing hurriedly across the paved lot with a set of car keys in hand. Stan and Rick jogged along after her looking faintly bemused, or at least Stan did -- Rick whistled and dawdled, forcing Stan to drag him along.

The El Diablo looked all right. Deep red, white canopy, in need of a wash, but otherwise she was in one piece. Stan breathed a sigh of relief.

After confirming with Stan whether or not it was the right car, Laika skittered over to the boot and unlocked it. Stan kept a firm grip on Rick’s cuffs for the time being, more for Laika’s sake than his own -- she kept glancing over nervously at Rick, who at every opportunity seemed keen to leer or lick his lips at her. He was trying a mite too hard there, Stan groused privately.

With a click and a thunk, the trunk popped open and Laika lifted it. Both Stan and Rick peered in, though Stan had to elbow Rick out of his personal space.

The contents were intact. Stan resisted the temptation to burrow through the rolls of carpet to look for the incriminating little plank of wood. Instead, he stood back and cleared his throat noisily.

“So, uh… Gary. Is that the stuff?” he said, giving Rick the side-eye.

Rick shrugged. “Nah. That’s carpet. There was a chunk of wood.”

“Well, maybe… the carpet _smells_ like it?” Stan ventured.

Without breaking character, Rick tipped forward and just planted his face into the trunk, nose right up against a roll of Iranian Tabriz. He then took a big, long sniff of the fabric, trailing his nose along the length of the rug as though it were a line of premium coke. At the end of the roll he rounded up for air with a gusty sigh, eyes fluttering shut.

“Eeeeyep, that’s the stuff,” he groaned, head tipped back, nose to the sky. “Like… like fuckin… lavender soap and puss--”

“WELP that’s all we need,” Stan suddenly coughed aloud. “Thank you Miss Laika, uh, we’ll just… take it from here.”

The girl nodded and turned away when Rick suddenly gave Stan a swift jab in the calf with his toe.

“Ow! What--” Stan began, glaring at him. Rick said nothing but jutted his chin out at the retreating girl with an expectant scowl.

“Oh! Oh, uh, fuck,” Stan stammered. “S’cuse me, Miss! Sorry, uh, I forgot… I gotta search the interior too. Could you just--”

With a clatter of heels, Laika trotted back. “Oh, yep, just let me unlock that for you,” she offered. She popped the lock and stepped away. “Anything else?”

“Nah. Thanks, you’ve been a peach,” Stan replied with a big grin.

Laika suppressed a smile as she headed back to the main building.

Meanwhile, Rick was already in the front cab, ass in the air, head down under the steering column. Stan did a double take.

“H-hey! What-- get outta there!” Stan protested, doing his best to shield Rick from view.

“Y-you’re the doofus who didn’t ask for the stupid keys,” came Rick’s muffled voice from somewhere around the pedals.

“Could you at least wait--”

The car abruptly started with a sputtering, revving cough, followed by a hearty vroom.

Stan stared. “You gotta show me how you did that.”

*

Twenty minutes later, Stan had shed the hat and bomber jacket. Rick was lounging back in the passenger-side seat with his overly-long legs propped up on the dash. On his head was Stan’s police hat.

“So, really,” Stan said eventually, as he squinted over the dash on their way northward up Market Street, “Where am I dropping you off? ‘Cause I’m basically on my way outta town now that the cops are onto me.”

“C’mon, the day is young,” Rick scoffed. “We’ve still got all day to hang out!”

“Are you kidding?” Stan turned to give him an incredulous stare. “After all that?!”

“Could be worse. We could still be in lockup.”

“Yeah, well…”

“AND your car could still be at the impound.”

“Okay, but--”

“As far as I see it, _Pines_ , you owe me one.” Rick lofted a knowing eyebrow at him.

Stan let out the breath he’d been holding and turned his gaze back to the road.

“...Stanley,” he mumbled.

“Muh?”

“My name is Stanley.” Stan furrowed his brow, hunching forward in his seat. 

“I dunno, I kinda liked ‘Stetson’. Like the hat.”

“Well, now that the cops have twigged onto my old moniker, I gotta toss it.”

“It’s the whole moustache thing. With the hat. I mean, it’s so you.” Rick whipped the police hat off his head and plopped it onto Stan’s fluffy hair.

“The ‘stache has gotta go too,” Stan just grumbled.

“Aww c’mon, dude. It’s a great piece. It just… suits your face.” Rick held up his fingers to frame his view of Stan. 

“Man, I dunno where you come from, but I’m really not looking forward to jailtime, arite? Yeesh.”

Rick pursed his lips thoughtfully as a silence settled in between them. “Relaaaax,” he said eventually, turning his gaze off Stan’s anxious mug and back onto the road. “I mean, look at you, Sergeant Beefcake. You’re a walking set of shoulders with a, a Clark Kent jawline. You’ll be fiiiine.”

“I’m not going to jail!” Stan yelped. “Just--just tell me where you wanna go and I’ll drop you off. I owe you that much at least.”

“Ah-ah, not so fast,” Rick sniffed, leaving the police hat cocked awkwardly on top of Stan’s head. “Y-you gotta take me to your supplier.”

“Huh? Why’s that?” 

“‘Cause that Rosolavian Purple Ironwood,” Rick paused here for effect, “is some seeerious contraband. And I gotta, y’know, make sure it ends up in the right hands.”

Stan gave Rick a hard, nervous stare. “You mean…?”

“Uh, by which I mean my hands,” Rick told him, holding up his spidery long fingers with a wriggle and a shit-eating grin.

“Hey, if that’s what you want, you gotta buy it from me,” Stan growled.

“That’s what I mean,” Rick drawled. “You’re gonna take me to ‘em, and tell ‘em you’ve sold me the whole lot.”

“Are you kidding? What makes you think you’ve got the cash for this stuff?” Stan levelled a suspicious eyebrow at him.

“We’ll be dealing in flurbos here. None of this local currency nonsense.”

“Flurbos?” Stan’s look went flat.

“Y-you know what you can get with a ton of flurbos?” Rick returned Stan’s deflated expression with a look of disbelief.

“That’s not a currency, and you’re clearly bonkers,” Stan sighed. “I’m dropping you off wherever, buddy.”

“Wait wait wait!” Rick leaned back and hastily pulled out the waistband of his shorts.

“I swear to God, Rick, if you pull something crazy outta those weird-- HOLY F--”

A strangled noise came out of Stan as he briefly lost control of the Stanleymobile, but when he realized what he was looking at -- actually, what he saw was oncoming traffic -- he jerked the wheel back and hoped like hell he hadn’t just experienced a coronary.

“What the eff, Rick!” he gulped.

“Y-yeah, might wanna, uh,” Rick pointed ahead, “wanna watch where you’re going.”

“Put that away!”

“What, does it bother you?” Rick waved it around.

“Yes! Don’t let anyone see you holding it!” Stan choked. “Please.”

Rick ran a hand along the length of it and grasped expertly, pointing it directly at Stan with a wink. “Don’t worry, buddy. I know what I’m doing.”

“Do NOT point that at me!” Stan lifted a hand off the wheel to make a clumsy grab for the object. 

Rick snort-laughed, sliding his gams off the dash. “Do you even know what this is, boy?”

“Don’t ‘boy’ me!” Stan swiped for Rick’s hand again. “Put! That! Away!”

“Ow! Ow, hey! Now you’re just-- you’re slapping me.”

“Damn straight I’m slapping you! I’ll slap you upside the head if it’ll get you to stop pointing that damn thing at me!” Stan leaned aside to whip the back of his hand at Rick’s face.

Rick couldn’t escape Stan’s reach. “Hey!” he snapped. “Hands off the moneymaker!”

“Then put that thing away!” Smack.

“No!”

“Put it away!” Smack.

“Cut it out!” Rick parried Stan’s invading hand.

“”Put--!” Smack.

‘It’s not--”

“--it!” Whap.

“NOT A GUN--”

“ _\--away!”_

Stan’s meaty ham hand finally slapped the gun out of Rick’s hand, where it bounced off the seat and landed somewhere near the gas pedal.

“What the hell, man!” Rick fumed. “You-- you’re gonna break it, look it’s-it’s caught in the-- under the clutch--”

“Good! You’re lucky that thing didn’t misfire!” Stan snarled back at him. “Do you have any idea what kind of damage an accidental discharge can do-- HEY!”

The driver’s seat was suddenly a tangle of limbs as Rick dove right in between Stan’s legs.

“Get outta there!” Stan yelped, his voice hitching as he attempted to leap up out of his seat. He succeeded in ramming the top of his head into the canopy instead, and his foot jammed down onto the accelerator. The DeVille suddenly leapt forward with a roar.

“Hold on, hold on! Just-- Jesus, Pines! Drive like a normal person and not-- not like a maniac,” came Rick’s muffled voice from somewhere under the steering column. “Almost got it…”

“Rick!” Stan coughed. Rick’s elbow jammed down straight into his crotch. 

“Move your stupid foot--”

“Get… off…!”

Red in the face, Stan grabbed a fistful of Rick’s hair and yanked the man’s head back up with a heavy sigh of relief. Rick let himself be hauled up and out from under the steering column, which alleviated the pressure of Rick’s palm braced upon Stan’s balls for leverage. Held up by his hair like a cat by the scruff, Rick then grinned and winked at the driver cruising parallel with them in the neighbouring lane. 

Scandalized, the driver hit the gas and sped ahead.

With a growl, Stan shoved a laughing Rick back over to his side of the cab.

“Will you stop being such a spaz!” Stan barked at him. “I’m driving here, for cryin’ out loud! I coulda hit somebody!”

“Whoo, boy, you’re intense,” Rick snickered. “You really are Jewish.”

“What is THAT supposed to mean?!”

“Noooothing. Now, as I was saying,” Rick sniffed, casually waving the gun around, “this is not a gun.”

“Well it sure--” Stan began, but upon second glance, he only now noticed the strange shape of the weapon. While it had the general muzzle-and-handle silhouette of a handgun, that was where the similarities ended. The barrel was flat and sideways for some reason, and there was a round hole in the top, like a blowhole. There was a handle, a button, and no trigger. The metal contraption had a sort of haphazard, thrown-together sort of look, like an unfinished science fair project...

Stan swallowed. He tore his gaze away so he could watch the road instead. “Okay. Okay. Maybe I overreacted,” he muttered. “S…. so what is that?”

“It’s a little invention of mine,” Rick replied smugly. He leaned back in the far corner of his seat and traced a finger along the trio of lights fixed to the front of the muzzle. “This is just the prototype. All I need is the battery.”

Meanwhile, Stan’s gaze flickered to the fuel gauge. “Yeah, but what does it _do_?”

“It’s a secret.”

Stan suddenly jerked the wheel aside. “I’m pulling over,” he grunted.

“Wait, wait!” Rick blurted out as he slapped a hand onto Stan’s forearm. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell you what it is. It’s-- it’s a special device, it-it-it calibrates supersymmetrical nodes along 2 and 5-D branes at, at low energy --dimensional supergravity, and searches for comp-comprehensible 4-dimensional models with, with, with closed loops so they can be folded at these nodes, allowing for the passage of-of-of-f physical bodies from-from one loop to another--”

Rick stammered for a little more as Stan straightened out the wheel, but Stan continued to look unimpressed. “Uh, let’s try that again,” he muttered, “but, uh, in normal speak.”

“It makes money!” Rick spluttered. “Also it opens up wormholes in space and time. But y’know, details.”

“Like, how?”

“I can show you -- only if I can get the battery for it.”

“What kinda does it use? Double A, or--”

“Nuh-uh, not that kinda battery. Here, uh… take-take me to Chinatown. I’ve got my stuff stashed over there with some pals of mine, and, and then I can show you.”

“Chinatown? Okay. Uh, where in Chinatown?”

“Just--just outside of it, on Bush and Kearny Street.”

Stan grimaced. It was a detour he didn’t want to take on his way out, but if it got this looney out of his car sooner, the better.

“Okay,” he sighed. “Okay.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just terrible dick jokes. Also, thanks again to [shitshow-mcgee](http://shitshow-mcgee.tumblr.com) for lending [Chester Norville](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8410855). ;D Note: May not be exactly the same Chester Norville. Multiverse rules!

Rick meanwhile chatted companionably for the duration of the trip, often interrupting himself mid-sentence at the sight of something innocuous, or to remark on something about Stan himself. Rick always seemed to be multitasking somehow, his mind already focused on something before he finished a sentence, flowing from one thought to another without breaking stride. It wasn’t that he was a fast-talker or a disjointed jitterbug -- he just always had something to say.

Stan waited for a suitable pause -- Rick had to stop for air _some time_ \-- before speaking. 

“You remind me of my brother,” he sighed, tapping a finger restlessly upon the leather-bound steering wheel.

“Yeah?” said Rick, eyes suddenly alight. “Older or younger?”

“Older,” Stan grunted. “We’re twins.”

“Oh, shit! Double trouble!” Rick laughed. “Where’s he now?”

“Kind of a long story,” Stan muttered. “But he’s kind of a smart guy, and he talks a lot about… stuff, like you do. Like, he just knows things.”

“A real smartypants, huh?” Rick pulled out the waistband of his hotpants again. “Thinks a lot about useless crap?”

Stan smirked. “Yeah.”

“Ha, I know the type.” Out of his pants, Rick produced a packet of cigarettes. “You smoke, buddy?”

“Uh.” Stan eyed the cigarettes and tried not to think about the damp, sweaty confines of Rick’s pants. “No thanks.”

“Suit yourself.” Rick tapped one out for himself and left the packet on the seat between them. “So where’s he now?”

“Dunno. Probably still at Backupsmore,” Stan mumbled. “Or maybe he got into West Coast Tech after all.”

“You guys don’t talk?” There was a faint clink as Rick unlidded a silver Zippo. Again, presumably it had come from the pants.

“Nope.” Stan shrugged.

“I know a thing or two about twins,” Rick said. He popped his cigarette between his teeth and snapped the lighter a few times behind the cover of one hand before it would light.

“Oh do you?”

“Uh huh. Thing about twins, is,” Rick began, after puffing a bit to get the cherry going, “they grow up never needing other friends. So when they become splitsville, making new friends is suddenly a lot harder than it should be.”

“Hey, I’ve got plenty of friends,” Stan snorted.

“Yeah, that’s why you’re living out of your car, selling-- selling fuckin’ carpet to undercover cops,” Rick guffawed around a mouthful of smoke. 

“I can’t help it if the dames want a taste of my wood.”

“Oh yeah? Like, made an appointment and everything just to see it?”

“You know it, pal. So rare, it’s illegal to own.”

“Hey, speaking of which-- how _did_ you come by a stash of Roslavian Purple Ironwood?” Rick suddenly asked, squinting suspiciously.

“Uh,” said Stan. “So… I know a guy who knows a guy…”

*

It was only a short distance between Market Street and Kearny, and soon Stan was pulling into a parking space on Bush street. After parking and locking up, Rick bade for him to follow along into a dead-end little lane that he didn’t like. Still, it was daylight and the lane wasn’t that narrow, but Stan had his reservations. He wasn’t sure if he was on a madman’s errand to get himself shivved and dumpstered in an alley while Rick stole his car. It was entirely possible -- Rick seemed like the type to turn tables on a dime, given the way he easily slid in and out of character roles. Having tussled with him during the jailbreak and the slapfight, Stan felt certain that Rick wasn’t a slouch on the fighting side, either. If it came down to it, Stan thought with a troubled frown, he’d have to drop the kid gloves and just straight knock him out if Rick tried anything.

“We’re just going in the back way, sheeze,” Rick was saying with a roll of his eyes. “And I don’t mean that figuratively.”

And by back way he meant upwards, apparently, as he stopped and stared up at a series of painted balconies threaded together by a fire escape staircase. He flicked his cigarette butt away into the gutter.

‘Hey buddy, gimme a boost, huh?” Rick said, turning to Stan. “I-I’m tall but not that tall.”

Stan recognized a sideways entrance when he saw one. Without complaint he crouched and laced his fingers together to serve as a stepping-stool, which Rick climbed onto without any trouble. As Stan stood however, he was surprised by how little the skinny jerk weighed. Rick however took the sudden lift in stride, taking the opportunity to take an extra step and a hop up off Stan’s shoulders to jump for the ladder, which he grabbed and swung on until the ladder slid down with a noisy rattle and clang.

“Do you benchpress cars or what!” Rick laughed, clambering up the ladder like a monkey. “Just throw me up top, will ya?” 

“Hey-- wait!” Stan leaped up after him.

On the roof of the building was… well, more roof. Stan didn’t know what he was expecting. The rooftop was paved but cracked all over the place, and there was a small pigeon coop camped nearby, all chicken wire and wooden perches under a tiled lean-to. Next to the coop were a few rickety old lawnchairs gathered around an upended plastic milk crate, which hosted a modest six-pack of Coors. Seated in one of the chairs was a heavy-set man of indeterminate age and ethnicity, dressed like a bird-themed luchador. On the chair next to him was a large, rumpled, ginger wig. 

“Yo, BP!” Rick greeted as he strode on over towards the weird little patio setup. “Catchin’ some sun out here or what?”

“You’re late,” the feathery luchador said, monotone.

“Got caught up.” Rick shrugged. He swung over and dropped himself into one of the lawn chair, splaying his long, bare legs out in front of him. “The hell are you drinking?”

‘BP’ glanced down at the can of Coors in one hand. “I have no idea.” He then glanced up at Stan, who was approaching. “And who are you?”

“Uh. Stan… Pines.” Stan stood awkwardly. “We, uh. Yeah.”

“I stole him outta jail along with his car,” Rick snickered. “You’ll never guess what was in the trunk.”

“If the answer is, ‘a body’, I must remind you that we had a talk about this,” BP warned.

“Nah, man, relax. BP, this is Stan Pines, Pines, this is Bird Person, and that’s Squanchy.” Rick pointed at the unkempt wig.

Clearly, Stan didn’t know what to make of this. “Hello,” he said woodenly, uncertain if he should address the luchador, the wig, or both.

“Siddown, man, siddown.” Rick flapped a hand at Stan. “Help yourself.”

Stan sat, and leaned forward to free one of the beers from the plastic six-pack rings. 

“So uh, what were you saying about this guy who knows a guy…?” Rick leaned forward and just somehow produced a screwdriver from his pants pocket. Or at least, Stan hoped it was from his pocket.

And so, he explained.

Stan owed someone money, was the long and short of it. Rather than pay in his eyeteeth, Stan offered to help unload whatever his lender had to fence -- for a given term, of course, and maybe a small percentage to keep him in liveable earnings. The deal was to return the borrowed amount with interest, which Stan had negotiated, since it was better than being separated from his car, his fingers, and eventually more personal items.

While Stan related his tale, Rick finally obtained his battery from BP after affirming that it had been fully charged, and quietly worked on carefully attaching it to his weird gun-like device with some chewing gum and a screwdriver. 

“Yeah, okay, but did he tell you where he got it from?” Rick pressed, pausing to take a draught from his beer.

“I dunno?” Stan shrugged again. “I mean, the guy fences stolen crap for a living. I don’t wanna know anything about him.”

“Lemme tell ya-- tell ya where HE got it from,” Rick belched, leaning forward. “He got it from US, motherfucker! That shit was ours before those thieving dickholes shot up our ship and stole it.” He crumpled his empty beer can and tossed it over his shoulder.

Stan’s gaze immediately hardened. “What,” he said.

“That’s right,” a nasal, cartoony voice yawned from out of nowhere. The ginger wig on the chair next to BP unrolled, stretched, and yawned. A scraggly tail flopped out. “Those Zigerions squanched it from us first!”

Stan just stared. “What’s going on here?” he suddenly blurted out. The talking wig was least of his problems.

“No doubt,” said the wig. The fuzzy mass unfolded further to reveal the face of the ugliest cat Stan had ever seen. Its mouth was too wide, like a Cheshire cat. “Rick’s been doin’ a lotta footwork just to find ya, buddy.”

“And you couldn’t have just told me from the start?” The hackles rose on the back of Stan’s neck.

Rick stretched forward and helped himself to one of the beers sweating on top of the milk crate. “I had to find out what I was dealing with, first,” he replied with another shrug.

“You--” Stan was at a loss for words as confusion and outrage began rearing their ugly heads. “So you just… you’ve been stalking me this whole time?”

“Eeeyep,” Rick sniffed as he cracked the can open. “Relax, buddy. Like I said, I needed to find out who you were first--”

“We would have just kidnapped and squanched you for information otherwise,” the ugly cat-wig pointed out.

“--and now that I know you’re cool, we won’t have to deal with what would’ve been a real tense situation. Ya dig?” Rick tipped his beer back for a sip.

“Yeah, like it’s not tense already,” Stan bristled. “Thanks for springing me outta jail, but no thanks for creepin’ me out. Peace.” 

As Stan rose from his rickety lawn chair, Rick set his beer down and suddenly sprang to his feet. 

“Whoa! Whoa, chill, dude!” he exclaimed, gun in one hand, beer in the other. “C’mon, man! I haven’t-- you haven’t even heard the best part yet!”

Stan turned on him. “You got me arrested, didn’t you?”

“Heh, all I did was slip an FDA ‘special bulletin’ about smuggling contraband species of wood -- hehe -- into the local copshop. I hadda get you to listen to me somehow--”

“Holy ham sandwiches. I’m outta here.”

“Wait!”

Rick clapped a hand onto Stan’s arm, which was his first mistake. Stan immediately grabbed Rick’s wrist, where he gripped _hard_. Rick visibly wilted on the spot, knees buckling.

“Now YOU listen,” Stan hissed, yanking Rick close. “Thanks to you, the cops know I’m in town now, which means I gotta leave the state before they start pinging me on radar. I’m a wanted man, ya _dig_? I ain’t got no reason to trust you or your weird friends, or your weirdass story about, about… _flurbos_ and all that funny stuff. As far as I’m concerned, we’re square. That’s it. _Finito_.”

Without ceremony, Stan immediately released Rick, who snatched his hand back with a wince. 

“Yeah okay, fine, fine,” Rick grumbled as Stan turned aside. “Go back to your, your, trunkside carpet store, motherfucker, and-- and you can forget about getting that, that piece of shit _Chester_ off your back for good and all…”

At that, Stan stopped. Slowly he turned back aside and levelled a good, hard stare at Rick.

Rick rubbed his wrist and raised that shit-eating grin of his. “Yeah,” he said, eyes alight. “That’s right, I know allll about you, Stan Pines, and I know why you owe that vicious dipshit Chester Norville ten grand plus, you-you card-dealing piece of shit. I’m here busting my ass trying to _help_ you, and you’re just being a, a big whiny pussyfaggot--”

Rick didn’t get to finish his sentence before Stan’s fist smashed into his mouth. The half-finished toy gun he’d been working on went spinning upwards, which Stan managed to catch with a stumble and a fumble. Rick meanwhile went crashing ass-backwards onto the sun-warmed concrete.

“Geez, you’ve made your point, wiseguy,” Stan muttered, standing over Rick with the gun in hand. “Go easy on the insults, will ya?”

Rick waited for his eyeballs to stop rattling around inside his head before speaking. Rubbing his chin ruefully, he managed to focus on Stan’s silhouette looming above him and smirked. 

“Heh. Yeaaah, that’s more like it,” he rasped. “Don’t-- don’t worry, dawg. We got you on this one. Stick with us and, and we’ll make it worth your while.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roadtrip! Also, gaaa-aaaayyyy
> 
> addendum: http://ucresearch.tumblr.com/post/150126220932/why-scientists-are-rooting-for-mushrooms-mushrooms

An hour later, Stan’s car was full. The luchador Bird Person sat politely in the back seat with Scrunchy, the hideous talking cat. Rick flopped into the front passenger seat while Stan took point at the wheel. Outside, the massive suspension cables of the Golden Gate Bridge whipped on past and wind guttered through the open car windows. 

Stan had finished his sandwich, but Squashy was still cramming his face with a third. Rick’s fingers flickered along invisible frets as he air-guitared to Cream’s _White Room_ thrumming from the radio. Bird Person only sat there, gazing out the window at the cobalt sea glittering out in the expanse on either side.

“So,” Stan finally said. “There’s still a lot you guys haven’t filled me in on.”

“Oh yeah?” Rick said, still concentrating on his imaginary guitar. The gun he’d been fiddling with earlier had disappeared, presumably back into his mysterious shorts.

“Like, all of it.”

Raunchy the cat merely sniggered, and BP said nothing.

“Roslavian Purple Ironwood does not exist here,” BP suddenly said, unbidden.

“Well, not in San Francisco, no.” Stan frowned.

“Not here on Earth,” BP said firmly.

“Come again?”

“It’s actually a species of ancient fungus that grows on planet Chenu in the Blooflarp System a hundred million lightyears away,” Rick suddenly supplied. “It’s a fungaloid so dense that it comprises up to 19% of Chenu’s entire mass. Can you imagine? 19% of Earth’s mass is, like-- the surface area of Asia! But made of fungus! Like, 19% of you is prob-probably, like, an entire leg and a kidney.”

“Oh… kay,” Stan ventured carefully.

“Anyway, as a result, this wood takes forever to burn, making it at best a sub-optimal source of fuel for space travel, but fuckin’ amazing for conventional land travel,” Rick went on as if he didn’t sound completely crazy. “But if you get a lot of it, man that sucker will burn for decades. It also doesn’t weigh as much as liquid fuel and it’ll get you from A to B with relatively little, little, uh, byproduct. If you can shill, like, thirty pounds of this stuff, you’ve basically financed your entire life in flurbos.”

Flurbos again. Maybe it was some kind new street drug?

Stan thought about the warehouse.

“Explain flurbos...?” he asked.

“Currency,” BP said flatly.

“It’s a codeword,” Rick said, without looking up from his work. “For fat stacks of caaaash.”

“Okay. Okay,” Stan mumbled, trying to work things out in his head. “So what’s the plan here?”

Rick changed up his fretting as the previous song ended, followed up by the strains of _Hollywood Nights_. “You show us where the goods are stashed, and we-we split it four ways.”

“What about Chester?”

“Yeah? What about him?”

“You said you were gonna help me out.”

“Oh! Yeah! Right,” Rick coughed. “No worries, dawg. We’ll figure it out when we get there.”

Stan did not look pacified. “Okay. So, say we managed to get the magic space wood back. What the heck am I supposed to do with a stack of fake wood?”

“Dude. Dude,” Rick breathed, exasperated. He finally glanced up from his noodling. “Did I not just say, like. A lifetime’s worth of fuel.”

“My car’s not gonna run on it, genius.”

“You--” Rick started to rise from his seat, but thought the better of it and settled back down quickly. “But think of the possibilities. C’mon, man. Sell it to NASA. Sell it to some eccentric billionaire. Build a cabin in the woods and never pay a heating bill for the rest of your life.”

As far as Stan was concerned, the whole thing was a joke. He had thought of the possibilities.

“What’re you gonna do with your half?” he asked, still frowning.

“Pitch it to some desperate conflict government and rake in the dough,” Rick replied immediately.

“Investments,” BP said.

“Hookers,” said Slouchy.

“Mkay.” Stan regretted asking. “But seriously, guys. We don’t have a plan, no weapons, we’ve got bupkiss. I can get you guys as far as the warehouse, but it’ll be useless unless we know what we’re doing.”

Rick began singing.

“ _Last night I held Aladdin's lamp,_ ” he crooned out in a gravelly voice. 

_“And so I wished that I could stay._  
Before the thing could answer me,  
Well, someone came and took the lamp away.  
I looked around, a lousy candle's all I found.  
Well, you don't know what we can find!  
Why don't you come with me little girl,  
On a magic carpet ride…” 

Stan rolled his eyes. This was going to be a long trip.

*

The trip took nearly an hour. In addition to regular daytime traffic heading northbound on the 101, Stan had to stop for gas. Naturally everyone piled out to raid the convenience store, leaving Stan at the pump, and returned minutes later laden with Hostess cakes, beer, and enormous slushies.

“Hey buddy, catch!” Rick called, tossing a crinkly baggie over at Stan. 

Stan caught the bag one-handedly, since his other was still resting on the pump. “What is-- oh,” he began, before glancing down at the label. “Thanks. I actually like these.”

“Good, ‘cause I thought they were honey-roasted but they’re totally not.”

Once the gas was paid for, they were back on the road again. Despite the gift of the toffee peanuts, Stan was still uneasy at the idea of delivering these weirdoes straight to Chester’s hidden den, not to mention being completely broke. Well, he had five bucks left, but that would be gone pretty quick.

Still, they were a companionable bunch to hang out with. They told stories and sang songs, and were overall easygoing. There was some talk about forming a band, though they had some trouble agreeing on what to play, and who to play for. There were names bandied back and forth that sounded alien to Stan but none of it was important, not while the sun was gleaming off the long hood of the DeVille, the wind in their hair, and with good music on the radio.

“Pines,” Rick suddenly said. “Hey, Pines. Pines. Pinesy. Pines. Pines. Pines.”

Stan ignored him. He had one hand on the wheel, and one elbow resting out the window. 

“Pines,” Rick repeated, in a warning tone.

Stan merely smiled to himself, drumming his fingers upon the Stanleymobile’s sun-warmed flank, head bobbing to the bossanova swing of Dusty Springfield shaking out of the radio speakers.

“Piiiines.” Rick began crawling over the joined seats towards him.

Stan kept his eyes on the road. Then suddenly he let out a shout, and the car began swerving. This was because there was something wet and horrid twisting frantically in his right ear, much to the hysterical laughter of the occupants in the back seat.

“MOTHERFUCKER,” Stan yowled as he planted a hand firmly against Rick’s skinny chest, and shoved him all the way to the other side of the cab. With a moist pop, Rick’s spit-slicked finger popped out of Stan’s ear as he fell back cackling.

“You dirty bitch!” Stan ground out, trying fruitlessly to scoop the drool out of his ear. “What the christ, Rick! What are you, twelve?!”

“Watch the road, Pines!” Rick howled amidst laughter.

The angry blare of a trucker leaning on the horn dopplered past them as Stan wrenched the vehicle back into its own lane.

“Lighten up, Pinesy!” Rick chortled. “You--you should be paying attention to the road, not-- not goofin’ around, ya-- ya big goof.”

“Ugh, you’re disgusting.” Stan straightened out the car before giving Rick the evil side-eye. “You call that a wet willy? I’ll show you what a fucking wet willy looks like.”

“Oooh, tough guy’s gonna give me a hot, wet finger,” Rick snickered, his back against the door, his long legs splayed out across the seat. With his knees bent, his shorts rode up.

“What-- Jesus! Close your legs, you-- you filthy hobo,” Stan laughed, realizing just how stupid Rick looked with his pointy hair and spider-legs. “Just put that shit away!” He slapped at Rick’s shin, which was the closest part of Rick near him.

“What, do you like what you see?” Rick waggled his caterpillar eyebrow.

“Seriously!” Stan snorted. “What is _with_ you and your aversion to pants?! Are you-- are you allergic to them or something?”

“May I point out that neither of us wear pants,” said the bird-luchador in the back seat.

With a creak of vinyl seating, Rick suddenly bent forward and was on his hands and knees, thrusting his face towards Stan’s ear. But since Stan’s focus was mostly on the road, as requested, his hand smacked Rick squarely across the face.

“Get. Away from me,” Stan growled.

“Oooh! Rick, are you gonna take that?” taunted the ugly cat in the back seat.

Rick’s gaze snapped back up. “Did you just slap me?!” he said archly.

“No, I only smack _bitches_ ,” Stan shot back.

Without warning, Rick’s hand darted out and landed a tart slap to Stan’s face.

“Ow, my eye!” Stan yelped, flinching. “Oh, that does it. Now I’m really gonna pound ya.”

The tires squealed as Stan abruptly swung the car off the road where it trundled to a jolting halt upon the gravel shoulder. 

“Oh shit, oh shit--” Rick gasped, scrabbling for purchase against the open passenger side window.

Like a cat, Rick managed to launch himself out the opening and onto the gravel siding while Stan slipped free of his seatbelt first. The vehicle rocked as Stan flung his door open, hurled himself over the hood of the DeVille, and then took off at a dead sprint after Rick, who by now had cleared the ditch and was now vaulting over a fence.

“Get back here, you _mouldy shit-twist!_ ” Stan howled.

“Yo’ mama!” Rick cackled, landing on the other side of the fence.

“Don’t you fucking dare!” Stan looked ready to plow through the fence instead of leaping it, but he was more agile than he looked. One-handedly he vaulted over as well and Rick, who had risked a glance over his shoulder, realized that Stan was going to catch up easily.

“Holy shit,” Rick heaved, half-laughing in terror. “Holy shit!”

Rick had underestimated him. Having spied the mild paunch and the built upper body, Rick had just assumed the big man had a habit of skipping leg day at the gym. But with Stan charging after him like a freight train, Rick now realized his error.

Meanwhile, Bird Person and Squanchy calmly exited the parked vehicle to stretch their legs. Squanchy clambered up onto the roof of the car and began rolling up a modest doobie. BP leaned back against the car, shuffled his wings, and folded his arms.

Off in the distance, they watched as the smaller, thinner target in the lead attempted to zigzag like a hare. The pursuer however wasn’t falling for it, and very quickly the larger figure tackled the smaller one to the dirt. There was a brief struggle punctuated by yelps and mostly them flapping their hands at each other. Eventually the big one managed to pin the smaller one down to the dirt, where he bent his head down and--

A long, thin shriek pierced the air. Squanchy licked the paper on his smoke and pressed it together.

“Squanch me a light, will ya?” he said. The shrieking degenerated into squealing.

BP provided.

Rumpled and breathless, both men eventually returned to the car. Rick was still reeling, his head bent at a funny angle as he desperately continued to rub his shoulder against his ear, and Stan was covered in dry grass but seemed much calmer now.

“Oh my god, I need a _towel_ ,” Rick panted, scrubbing his ear. “That was _brutal_. It was like-- like a fucking washing machine in my ear. Like a-a tongue tornado.”

“You don’t have to be gross, Rick,” Stan snorted as he rounded the front grill of the DeVille.

“Y-you could’ve at least bought me dinner first before trying that shit on me,” Rick went on, popping open the passenger side door, “Seriously, his moustache was like, like those bristly rollers in an automatic car wash-- oh hey, thanks.”

Grateful for the interruption, Stan rolled his eyes as he slid back into the car, content to wait while Rick and Scrawny shared a smoke outside. BP joined him a minute later.

“Stan Pines,” the bird man said in what Stan considered to be his normal monotone, “if you have a moment to listen, I have devised a plan of action for this upcoming interaction with the human Chester Norville. Watching you and Rick run around in the field gave me an idea.”

“Oh yeah?” Stan turned his seat and draped an elbow across the backing. “All right. Lay it on me.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy. This is a long one. Also: a butt.

At the end of half an hour, Stan had literally taken them over the river and through the woods to Muir Beach, located on the west side of the peninsula. There was a brief hike from the parking lot up a hill towards the top of the cliffs overlooking the sea. The odd group earned strange looks from tourists as they trudged along the sandy, fence-lined path, but no one took photos, and no one bothered them.

Halfway to the overlook, Stan stopped at one of the concrete observation bunkers peering out of the side of the grassy hilltop.

“Here it is,” Stan sighed, standing upon the lip of the bunker. The bunker was shaped like a breadbox, punched into the earth with the rolldown lid propped half-open. 

“For a minute I thought you were gonna take us to Pirates Cove,” said Rick, gazing down into the blank, featureless interior of the bunker. “I mean, at least that would've made sense if you were trying to make a terrible joke. But this? I don’t know what this is. What are we looking at?”

Stan crouched down and then carefully leapt into the bunker first. “There’s secret entrance,” he said, scuffling his feet along the sandy concrete floor. “Hold on, it’s been a while…”

Rick exchanged looks with his other two cohorts. However, they were quickly distracted by the low, gritty scrape of something heavy dragging across the floor below.

Miraculously there was now an opening in the low wall that hadn't been there before, and a rough dirt path descending down from it.

Stan’s voice echoed from lower down the staircase. “C’mon, it’s this way,” he called up.

Again, the odd trio looked at each other. Then with unspoken agreement, BP took point leaving Rick and Squanchy on rearguard as they descended the sloping path in single file.

Every few feet along the path had a wooden board embedded into the dirt to serve as steps, and Stan kept careful count of them for paranoid reasons. When Chester first brought him here, Stan recalled a bizarre sense of funhouse atmosphere -- the haunted kind, unfortunately. He had an eerie feeling of being watched, whether by hidden cameras or ghosts or whatever, and at the time resolved to never come back here again.

And yet, here he was. But this time he had backup.

“Whoa, hold it. Okay, this is new,” Stan suddenly said, stopping. 

At roughly twenty feet down at a winding curve along the path, Stan had flicked on his lighter to see where he was going. At the bottom of the path the held up the tiny flame and stepped aside so his cohorts could see what was up ahead.

“Okay, this is obviously not… what I was expecting,” Stan mumbled, staring forward. “I have no idea what this is.”

Though the lighting wasn't any good, the roadblock up ahead was fairly clear. For one it appeared that a heavy metal wall had been recently installed in the tunnel, made up of metal panels bolted together in an organized fashion. Unsettlingly, right in the center of the arch-shaped wall, was an arch-shaped doorway. The door itself, however, was a butt.

Or at least, it _looked_ like a butt. It was bright pylon orange, and was smooth and round as a balloon, er, two balloons, with what was clearly an enormous, puckered sphincter in the center. Thankfully there was no hair on it, or Stan would have dropped the lighter and just turned back, money be damned.

Suddenly, Squanchy scampered forward between Rick and BP’s legs to cut to the front of the line. “Hey, I know what that is! Jackpot!” the scruffy creature beamed. “Follow me!”

Stan stood in mute horror as the little ugly cat calmly leapt up and jammed itself headfirst into the butt. It took some wiggling to fit in, but the sphincter, once engaged, calmly sucked the cat into itself with a juicy slurp.

“It’s a crappy theft deterrent system,” Rick explained as Bird Person shuffled forward past them. “It only works on Zigerions, though. I have no idea why they’d think it works on anyone else but them.”

Stan just stared incredulously as BP did the same thing as Squanchy, though the bird-man chose to enter hands-first, as if poised to dive into water. And with the exact same ease, the butthole sucked him up too and he disappeared without a trace.

“Uh, I dunno about this,” Stan murmured, unable to take his eyes off the, uh. The door. It wasn't wet or slimy, nor were there any visible pores or, or, stuff. Details.

“Relax, Pines,” Rick said with a grin and a hearty slap to the other man’s shoulder. “Who knows, maybe you’ll even like it.”

“Yeah right,” Stan snorted, just before Rick leaned in and blew the flame out on the lighter.

The tunnel instantly went dark. Stan yelped as he felt hands grabbing at his shoulders, and before he realized what Rick was doing, he was shoved headfirst into the soft, yielding surface of the butt. 

Stan struggled to plant his hands against the butt-walls, but Rick easily swept a foot out from under him, causing him to lunge forward with his shoulders. That was all it took for the butthole to continue drawing him in, and Stan felt the breath squeezed out of him as his entire body quickly slipped through the tight opening. 

It wasn’t a long journey, thankfully. The wall was only a foot wide, it turned out, as Stan was quickly shat out the other side so fast that he nearly landed face-first onto the floor. He managed to catch himself with his hands, but it was Bird Person who helped pull him back up his feet.

Red-faced and ultimately embarrassed, Stan muttered a thanks and hastily reached up to smooth a hand over his hair in an effort to stave off the awkwardness. The expressionless bird-man only gave him a nod however, and kindly nudged him aside just as Rick came slurping out after him.

Stan was still fixing his hair and smoothing out his moustache as Rick landed hands-first and rolled neatly up to his feet, nimble as an acrobat. He then handed the lighter back to Stan, who snatched it away with a scowl.

“Was that really necessary?” he growled, shoving the item back into his pocket.

With a swift, wavy motion of one hand, Rick produced a cigarette out of thin air. Stan recognized a slight of hand trick when he saw one, but was not impressed.

“Uh, yeah. We don’t got all day, man,” Rick said, smoothly tucking the cigarette behind his ear. “We’re here to steal another man’s wood, not stand around being afraid of assholes.”

“I was _not_ scared,” Stan protested, but was ignored as Rick ghosted past him.

With a huff, Stan stormed off after him.

*

Aside from the weird security ‘door’, the place was as Stan remembered it. The secret underground warehouse was large and airy with armoured-looking corridors, and it put him in mind of a small plane hangar, only with armoured walls and pot lights. He didn't recall the weird sci-fi-looking details last time, however.

This time there were bright green running lights embedded into the walls and beneath the floor grating, the overhead lighting had improved significantly, and he certainly didn't remember the low-frequency thrum reverberating gently from the walls. At first Stan figured the new additions might be part of the strange new ‘security’ system, but....

He kept his suspicions to himself, for now.

At least the general direction hadn't changed, and Stan knew the way to the warehouse. However, even the warehouse door looked different: the rolling blast door now looked duly armoured, and there was a keypad on the wall next to it.

“Okay, now that wasn't there last time either,” Stan pointed out. 

“Jorge? Eric? Is that you?” a voice called out from the far end of the hall behind them. 

Stan whipped around, and the first thing he noted was the absence of Bird Person and Squelchy. Crap, did they get lost?

Rick however was still with him, but he looked less surprised.

Striding up the corridor was a tall man, heavy-set, built rather like Stan but more tan and with less hair. The man was chewing on a toothpick as he approached, his heels clipping across the metal grating, his flared trousers fitted perfectly, his silk button panel shirt swirling with psychedelic paisley.

“Hey, you’re not supposed to be here,” the man went on, his stride hastening. “Who the fuck are you?”

“It’s me, Stetson,” Stan replied immediately before Rick could invent something for them. “Stetson Pinefield? We met at the Twin Peaks, uh, a few weeks ago.”

“Well, ya don’t say! Stets, what the fuck are you doing here,” the man laughed. He had a loud voice. “And who the fuck is this kid? Where are your pants, son?”

“I left ‘em at your mother’s house,” Rick said with a big, fake grin.

“This is, uh,” Stan said quickly, “Shermie. A client.”

“Huh. Really.,” the man chuckled, tipping his head to give Rick a cursory up-and-down, his brows knitting.

“‘Yo,” Rick yawned.

“Anyway, how the fuck didja get in here? You should’ve given me a call first,” the man went on.

“Sorry, Chester.” Stan shrugged. “I tried calling but uh, I had a feeling you weren't home anyway. Shermie here, uh, really wanted a look at the goods before committing, ‘cause he’s gotta fly back to Monaco tonight. Yacht party or something?”

“Man, you rich guys really push that eccentric stereotype, don’tcha?” Chester chuckled, giving Rick a chummy grin. “I was kidding about the pants.”

Rick returned the smile with less enthusiasm. 

“Y-yeah, I don’t got all day,” he coughed, squaring his shoulders. “I need to see if this-this lumber is legit, y’know, can’t build a house with sub-par shit. Ol’ Stets here has been trying to sell me on this magic fuckin’ wood that resists bugs and lightning, but I don’t buy nothin’ til I see the thing personally.”

At that, Chester lofted an interested eyebrow. “Well, Mister, uh… Shermie, you've come to the right place! Come with me, sir, and we can discuss shipping arrangements along the way, if you’d like.”

Chester waved for the pair to walk with him, and so they did, flanking the tall man on either side. 

“The bosses have been, uh, redecorating the joint,” Chester went on. “Putting in better security, that kinda thing. So the cargo’s been moved to a different part of the bunker for storage for now.”

“Uh huh. So uhhh, kinda hard to hide an entire secret underground base in a public place, like say, a tourist attraction,” Rick murmured, stretching his arms up to fold his hands behind his head. “W-what’re the logistics of that?” 

“Couldn't tell ya. The bosses are super secret about the way they do things around here. Picky about clients, too. They only communicate over the phone, never show up in person.”

“I wonder why,” Rick said dryly. “So uhh, just how picky about clients?”

“I’m not sure. Rich, of course. But they’re always eccentric types. Kinda like-- exactly like you, actually.” Chester glanced over at Rick again. “They dress a bit funny, or they've got weird hair, or they speak with a funny accent.”

“Exactly like me?” Rick lofted one side of his unibrow. 

“Well, no. I mean, you fit the criteria, two outta three.” Chester shrugged.

“Explains why you’re such a dick,” Rick mumbled.

“What was that?”

“Just my funny accent.”

Meanwhile Stan remained silent, though he did manage to nudge Chester with an elbow to distract him from Rick. “Hey, uh, is this it?”

Stan pointed off to the side. The trio stopped to look.

Broad windows lined the wall of the corridor, showing an open view of the moderately-sized cargo bay below. There were rows upon stacks of plastic-wrapped boxes on pallets, each separated by differently coloured tape. 

Rick was there in an instant, face plastered against the curved window. 

“Is that ALL of it?” he exclaimed, his breath fogging the glass. He was practically drooling.

“What, that? Nah,” Chester said, with a shrug. “No idea what that’s about. But that’s not it. Come on over this way…”

Instead, Chester crossed over to the other side of the corridor to a small side-door. Quickly he punched in a number on the keypad in the doorway alcove, and with an obedient bleep and a swish the blast door rolled up and Chester strode on through, beckoning for the other two to follow him.

Stan had to peel Rick off the window first before dragging him along after Chester. Before crossing the threshold however, Stan set a hand on Rick’s shoulder to stop him, and bent in close to his ear.

“Where are the others?” Stan whispered, while keeping a wary eye on Chester’s retreating back.

“Somewhere,” Rick mumbled back. Casually he slid out from Stan’s hand and kept on going.

The second warehouse space was much smaller, but it only served to make the single pallet in the middle of the room look that much larger. As Chester stood aside, Rick began circling the pallet, which was stacked higher than a man, with eyes like saucers.

Stan likewise stood aside, uncertain as to what to expect. The whole room smelt strongly of soap. 

It was a long time before Rick circled back around to rejoin them. “Incredible,” he breathed, eyes still large. “There-there must be-- must be a ton, a literal _ton_ of this stuff right here…! How-how is the floor not falling through?”

“Built on solid rock, I guess,” Chester replied. “How about it?”

“How about it!” Rick whistled, clapping a hand to his forehead. “It’s a lot to take in, gotta admit. The smell in here though, phew. Lemme-- lemme step outside for a minute, I can’t think while this whole fuckin’ place smells like a, a fricken bubblebath.”

“Sure, pal, right this way.” Chester took a sidestep towards the door, which triggered the motion detector. The blast door rolled back up again, and both Rick and Stan ducked beneath it to exit back out into the main corridor.

Once out the door, Rick kept right on walking, pacing leisurely along the row of windows overlooking the larger warehouse.

“All right buddy, I-I’ve got _concerns_ ,” Rick was saying as Chester hurried a bit after him. 

Stan meanwhile lingered a bit, glancing back and forth between Chester and the small room they’d just left.

Steepling his fingers, Rick didn't wait for a reply. “Because seriously, I can’t-- can’t deal with an entire house that smells like my ex-wife, I mean, I’ve got a sensitive palate, right?”

“Oh, uhh, don’t you worry, this special wood doesn't retain its smell for long…!” Chester said quickly, lengthening his stride to match Rick’s long-legged swagger. “It’s, uh, still fresh, you see, and once it airs out it’ll be fine. Yeah.”

“Uh huh. I’m a cook, you see, and I can’t cook in a kitchen made of a premium lumber if, if everything smells and tastes like French douche, I mean, I can’t have that.”

“Nope, totally won’t happen,” Chester said, having caught up. “There’s, uh, a sealant that’ll, uh, cover up the smell. It just takes a while to fully… seal.”

“I’m not serving douche food, Mister Norville. I just can’t. You ever tasted food that smelled like that? You realize douche doesn’t taste the way it smells, right?”

“I wouldn't know, sir. That won’t be the case, I promise.”

“Okay, but does this sealant affect the colour? I mean, I can live without that greyish shit colour, what’s it called? Taupe? Dope? Or was it fuckin’.... Fuckin’ what is it, puke? No, puce. Puce! What the fuck name is that for a colour? Anyway, yeah. It sounds and looks like literal soft-serve shit, so if this stuff can be stained or painted on, that would be pretty groovy, you know what I’m saying?”

“It’s, uh-- yes, you can paint on it, no problem,” Chester answered quickly, frowning a little at how fast Rick was talking. “That’s what the sealant is for, it’s, uh… primer.”

“Good, ‘cause I was thinking, why the fuck do they call it ‘purple ironwood’ when it’s not even purple? Then I thought, right, it looks kinda mauve in daylight, like, kind of a silvery light purple, _lilac_ , even, I mean, that’s pretty clever. Still looks like shit indoors, though.”

“A fresh coat of paint can fix that right up, rest assured,” Chester said in assuaging tones. “Or if you like, it can be stained, of course.”

“Yeah okay that’s great and everything,” Rick went on, walking further and further now. “But hold on a sec, Norville, let’s talk about sustainability and, and being environmentally conscious for a moment…”

A few feet behind them, Stan was beginning to see the value in Rick’s incessant gift of gab. Keep the mark occupied, right…?

He glanced over his shoulder down the corridor. It was empty.

“...a thing or two about appreciation,” Rick was saying with a sniff.

“Uh, I’m gonna hafta ask that we don’t wander too far,” Chester said uncertainly, glancing behind him just as Stan whipped his gaze forward again. 

Rick stopped and flung his arms up and out. “Why not? There’s nobody else here.”

“Uhh, y’know, for security,” Chester mumbled, eyes darting.

Rick paused and gave him a long, expressionless stare. Stan, who wasn't even the one being stared at, began to sweat.

“Su-UURrre!” Rick suddenly belched. “Yeah. Let’s go take another look at the goods, shall we?”

This time it was Stan who lead the way back to the small storage unit. He gazed out of the wall of windows along the wall as he strolled, only half-listening to Rick and Chester now haggling quietly in the background. 

Strange how the warehouse was completely empty of people, Stan wondered. All these extra lights surely meant there were workers or security guards, at least? But the last time he’d visited, there had been no people either…  
Just as the thought crossed his mind however, Stan spotted it: two tiny figures down in the warehouse below, hurrying across the floor with a fully-loaded metal cart.

Stan stopped dead and quickly spun around. “So!” he suddenly barked out. “I uh, was wondering if we could, uhh… discuss my fee?”

Quickly he paced over to Chester and Rick, specifically to block Chester’s view of the windows. “Finder’s fee, I mean,” Stan went on. “Finding these… really _specific_ buyers doesn't come easy, y’know…”

“Not in front of the client, will ya?” Chester groused, giving Stan a scathing look. 

“Yeah, babe. Show-show some fuckin’ respect,” Rick scoffed, though he flashed him grin despite the tone.

Stan tried to look injured by the sarcasm, screwing up his face until Chester rolled his eyes and looked away. Only after he turned to head for the door opposite did Stan let his shoulders sag in relief. 

Chester punched in the passcode on the keypad and led the way back in. Stan stood aside to let Rick pass first, who plucked the cigarette out from behind his ear and gave Stan a bob of his eyebrows. Stan kept a completely straight face, but couldn’t stop from sweating anxiously.

The stink of lavender and lemon juice hit him in the face again as he re-entered the smaller store room. The pallet of plastic-wrapped wood was still in there, reeking up the joint. Rick and Chester stood around it, still haggling.

“Look, all I’m saying is that a-a lump sum at this point is gonna be tricky,” Rick was saying as he casually tucked the cigarette between his lips. “And besides, what’s the preferred currency anyhow?”

“Depends on what you’ve got.” Chester folded his arms.

“Lemme guess, your suppliers are reeeally into _flurbos_ , aren't they?”

That was the signal. At that, Stan fished out his lighter and handed it to Rick, who palmed it and cupped his hands around his cigarette.

Chester meanwhile lofted his eyebrows. “You really are the real deal, ain’tcha,” he remarked, looking impressed. “Hey, uh. I’m gonna hafta ask ya to put that out.”

“Hey, I’m just trying to clear the air.” Rick puffed a bit to get the cherry going, handing the lighter back to Stan as he did so. “Can’t smell for shit thanks to this, uh, highly illegal alien contraband stankin’ up the place.”

“Seriously,” Chester muttered, narrowing his eyes now. “The smoke ruins the uh…”

“What, the flavour?” Rick laughed, exhaling a light cloud of smoke. “Newsflash, bucko, there’s one really important thing you forgot to mention in all this.”

Stan remained close by the doorway.

“For one, I gotta say your sales pitch is kinda the pits here, buddy,” Rick said conversationally, waving his hand idly as he turned and began strolling around the stacked pallet. Chester, looking extremely nervous now, hustled along after him. 

“Even-- even Pinesy here does a better job than you,” Rick went on, ignoring Chester’s attempts to get his attention. “Honestly, you’re a pointless middleman who has no business messing around with _foreign goods_.” He took a drag off his cigarette, blowing smoke up into the air.

“Would you please--”

“And another thing!” Rick rang out, now hastening. “I know I said I was looking to build a whole fuckin’ house outta this magic space wood, but I’m reeeally surprised at how you haven’t once mentioned how this shit is extremely _flammable_.”

At that, Rick plucked his cigarette out of his mouth and pressed it lightly against an exposed corner of the shrinkwrapped lumber.

_Whoof._ The entire stack lit up all at once as though spontaneously combusting on its own. Stan was startled by how fast it went up, but also intrigued by the purple flames. 

_Ahhh, so that’s why they called it purple ironwood,_ he thought dimly. 

“ _What the fuck,_ ” Chester screamed. “What the fuck did you just do?!”

“Have fun putting that out, Norville,” Rick cackled. “Oh, and tell your Zigerion bosses that Rick Sanchez says fuuuuuck you!”

The flames flickered violet as they licked up to the low ceiling, shimmering with iridescent hues. Stan could have watched it burn until the end of time if Rick hadn't grabbed his arm on the way out.

“Show’s over, time to book,” Rick said quickly.

Stan was about to open his mouth to say something, but unfortunately he found a fist in it. It was Chester’s fist, smashing Stan’s lip right against his teeth. Stan staggered back against the blast door just it rolled up to let Rick out, causing Stan to fall ass-first to the floor.

“You worthless scumbag!” Chester roared, storming out the door after them. “What the fuck, what the _fuck! _Do you know what you just did?! That stuff burns forever! Once you light it, it never fucking goes out!”__

__“Does this mean I’m not getting my finder’s fee?” Stan coughed as he scrabbled backwards to escape the reach of Chester’s booted foot._ _

__“Motherfucker!”_ _

__Chester was on him in an instant, bending down swiftly to grab Stan by the front of his shirt and drag him back up to his feet._ _

__“I’m going to kill you,” he hissed, his face practically pressed up against Stan’s nose. “And then, I’m going to kill your weird, ugly friend.”_ _

__“Not today, champ,” Stan croaked, pulling a hand out of his pants pocket. “By the way, your poker games are a scam, just saying.”_ _

__“What--”_ _

__Stan threw something down to the floor and immediately stomped on it. _Poof!_ Immediately a thick billow of smoke bloomed up all around them, engulfing the pair in eye-stinging white fog. With a swear that ended in a cough, Chester released his grip on Stan to cover his watering eyes._ _

__Smoke trailed off his frame in clinging wisps as Stan quickly turned and bolted, heedless of direction. It took a minute for him to realize that Rick was trying to catch up._ _

__“Stan, you dummy!” Rick snapped, flailing after the bigger man. “Where the hell are you going?!”_ _

__“Back the way we came!” Stan shouted back._ _

__“Not that way!”_ _

__Stan wheeled around and nearly ran into Rick. This time Rick was much cannier and merely dodged, shying aside._ _

__“Yeesh!” Rick panted, “you’re a-- you’re a hell of a runner, man.”_ _

__“Rick!” Stan gulped, and pointed over Rick’s shoulder._ _

__“Yeah, yeah, I’m on it,” Rick muttered. He’d pulled out the waistband of his incredibly short shorts again, and was rummaging around in them with the other hand._ _

__“We don’t have time for this shit!” Stan groaned._ _

__Rick ignored him as he pulled out the weird toy gun. “Sure we do,” he said with a grin, aiming the gun at the wall beside them._ _

__With his attention occupied by the sight of a smoke-wreathed, red-faced Chester barrelling at them, Stan completely missed the sight of Rick pushing the button on the gun. From the flat muzzle, a blast of bright light shot out and hit the wall where a perfectly round disc of bubbling green and yellow light swirled into existence._ _

__It was the green glow reflecting into the corner of his eye that drew Stan’s attention, and for the second time within five minutes he was mesmerized by the slow whirl of the green apparition beside him._ _

__“In ya go!” said Rick, cheerfully._ _

__Before Stan could even register what was happening, Rick body-checked him straight into the wall where instead impacting, he--_ _


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The finale!!!!

\--fell through the green light, tumbling onto some grassy turf outside.

The ground beneath him was soft and springy, safely breaking Stan’s fall. Still in panic mode, Stan immediately sprang back up to his feet and continued running, only to be thwarted by the sudden appearance of a cliff ledge.

Daylight glared off the glittering surface of the ocean sprawled out before him. Directly below was a fifty-foot drop straight onto a jagged, rocky beach. Seagulls mewled and guttered in lazy circles overhead.

There was a faint _zwop_ behind him, followed by approaching footsteps.

“Haha, holy shit!” Rick laughed. “Was that fucked up or what?”

Stan glanced over his shoulder, eyes wide. “Buh,” he said intelligently.

The gun with the little green battery screwed into the top of it was held up for Stan to see. 

“And that’s what this little trinket does,” said Rick, spinning the gun deftly in one hand before holstering it straight back into the stretchy waistband of his pants. “Whaddya think?”

“Wha… what do I think?” It took Stan a moment to remember to blink. “What just-- how did-- is that…?”

“It’s a portal gun,” Rick explained, now stuffing the gun back into his pants where it mysteriously did not fall out of his bizarrely short pantleg. “It shoots portals. Unfortunately I’m still trying to figure out how to extend the battery life so it can last for longer than one use.”

The sea breeze stirred their hair and clothes. Bewildered, Stan found himself at a loss for words.

Suddenly, everything that Stan had been pointedly ignoring came crashing down on him. The weird-smelling magic space wood, Rick’s mysterious pants, flurbos, the bird-luchador, the talking cat, the secret door that looked like an ass, the weirdly sci-fi looking bunker hidden in a tourist trap…

“So where’s the wood?” Stan breathed, feeling a little light-headed.

“BP and Squanchy have it loaded up on a cargo shuttle and should be coming round right about now,” Rick said with absolute confidence. “Your pal Chester back there is probably losing his mind at the moment, if he hasn’t already found the holographic projector. You Earth people are so easy to fool.”

“Earth people… what?” Stan frowned at him. “What’re you saying? Are you actually--”

The light breeze became a brisk blast of wind as a large shadow suddenly loomed across the grass all around them. Stan spun around and stumbled backwards into Rick, who merely stood there and watched.

A massive shape rose majestically up from the cliff’s edge. It was shaped like an egg with fins all around the fat end, and a clear plastic canopy dome on the small end. Despite the odd shape, Stan clearly understood that this was a space ship, albeit a small one. Eerily it made no sound -- no roar of jet engines, no loud machine whirr -- and it merely hovered in place, hanging in mid-air.

The canopy popped open, and Squelchy the cat stuck his head out.

“Hey, Rick!” the ugly cat yelled over at them. “Ya squanchin’ or what?”

The ship lowered itself a little so that Scrawny hop out onto the transport shuttle’s finny little wing. At this level, Stan could see that Bird Person was seated in the open cockpit at the controls.

A pat on his shoulder made Stan turn to see Rick grinning at him.

“Welp, that’s me,” Rick said, giving Stan’s broad shoulder a second pat before he brushed past him towards the ship. “Had a blast!”

“Wha-- hey, wait a minute--" Stan turned to watch him go.

Rick deftly leapt up onto the wing, where he and Squanchy both climbed into the open cockpit next to Bird Person.

“Wait, wait!” Stan called out. “What about-- what about my share of the loot? I helped!”

“Yeaaahhh, about that,” Rick mumbled, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “See, we can’t really leave behind any evidence that we were even here on account of, uh, the space feds. Normally we wouldn’t even leave witnesses either, but uhh, BP kinda had a chat with me about that…”

“What?!”

“Hey! I’m all for bringing you along with us, but we’ve got a literal ton of cargo in here, there’s just no room left.”

“What the fuck, Rick?!”

“Sorry, buddy!” Rick waved as the plastic canopy began lowering. “I’ll make it up to you!”

“What next time, you asshole!” Stan shouted. “Rick! Rick, get back here!”

Stan began to run towards the ship, but the shuttle was already beginning to rise. He could still see Rick waving goodbye even as the ship rose up and up, and with nary a sound the little egg-ship zipped off across the sparkling sea.

There was nothing Stan could do except stay there, stopped at the edge of the cliff.

“...you shit,” he panted, staring narrow-eyed at the bright horizon. “You… you shitty shit. Fuck. Fuck!”

That last word he yelled out at the sea. Only the gulls answered, floating on the rising breeze.

Exhaustion finally hit him. Feeling weary and gutted, Stan let himself collapse backwards onto the grass, arms flopped out, gaze fixed up at the sky. The heavens were a burning blue, supposedly stretching forever onward until fading into the black of space. Is that where Rick came from? Was he really an alien from the stars, sent down to spy on him?

Idly Stan wondered if he’d just been tripping balls the entire time. It would explain a lot.

With a grunt, he sat back up again just in time to be hit square in the face by something soft and flappy. Surprised, Stan flailed for a moment before realizing that the wind had just blown some debris at him -- probably just a piece of paper or the usual beach trash. As he peeled it off his face however, the smell struck him: like rangy B.O. and bandaids…

He looked at the scrap of cloth in his hand. It was Rick’s disgusting hotpants.

Stan’s first instinct was to turn his head and throw up, because the sweaty crotch-stench was that much more incredible close up than from a safe distance. His second instinct prevailed however, which had him gingerly sticking his hand into them, carefully, as though the pants could suddenly bite at any moment…

His hand passed through the leg-hole without incident. Experimentally he wiggled his fingers on the other side. Hm. Nothing.

Disappointed, Stan pulled his hand back out again only to discover something stuck to the back of his hand. 

It was the paper receipt from the convenience store they visited earlier. Stan squinted at the wobbly handwriting:

  
**Keep the change  
\--R.**  


Stan turned the receipt over to find a fifty dollar bill folded up in it.

“Asshole,” said Stan, in disbelief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Roll credits! It's the end, roll credits!!
> 
> Come fight me at http://beta-19.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> Crits and comments welcome! Visit me at http://beta-19.tumblr.com


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